And Then They Hunt the Wounded Down
by KidKai
Summary: Hunter and Shane are both trying to deal with painful pasts and after Shane witnesses a nasty confrentation between Hunter and Hunter's father, a friendship is forged. (Rated for language and some violence) **PLEASE Read and Review**
1. Hunter

And Then They Hunt the Wounded Down  
  
Notes:   
-this is the beginning of an ongoing story. It's not done yet.  
-I don't own the characters, it's not real, it's just a story, etc.  
-it's rated for language.   
  
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::Hunter::  
  
You want to know a secret? You know Edge's entrance theme? I wrote those words. Really.  
I never intended for it to be anybody's theme. Hell, I never intended it to be seen. By anyone.  
After I wrote it and decided it struck way too much of a personal chord, I crumpled it up and  
chucked it into the nearest trash can. I sure as hell never expected the damned thing to come  
back... Yeah, I know. You probably don't believe me. That's okay... You think you know me.  
  
I'm really not the asshole I play on tv. Aw, who am I kidding. I'm every bit that asshole and  
then some.   
  
I've been told that I'm not exactly the easiest person to get to know. I know I'm not the easiest  
person to like, either. That doesn't bother me. In fact, I try my damndest to keep it that way. See,  
once you get past the initial roadblocks I've built up, and you get inside my fucked up mind,  
there's only two ways to go. Most people take one quick look around and run screaming for the  
nearest exit. But the ones who don't get out right away actually start to drown in my shit. I've  
seen it happen. I mean, look at Steph-- She really was a sweet kid before, but a couple of months  
with me and she morphed into Super Bitch.  
  
The only person who ever really saw me and stuck around anyway was Shane. Way back  
before Stephanie and I, before DX, back when I was still floundering in the mid-card, buried there  
as punishment for my bit in the whole MLG incident, Shane got an eyeful of the real me. And he  
didn't run. He didn't drown either. He threw me a lifeline.  
  
To say my relationship with my father was rocky would be the ultimate understatement. We  
were so far beyond rocky that rocky would have been roses and sunshine. Even as a little kid, I  
could never do anything right. I remember helping him clean out the garage once. I was seven.  
Seven damned years old and that bastard picked me up and threw me clear across the garage for  
dripping paint from a leaky can on His Floor. I can still remember lying there half-dazed yet oddly  
mesmerized by the incredibly strange angle my right arm seemed to be hanging at while he ranted  
about what a hopeless moron and how much damned trouble I was; I couldn't even clean a garage  
without making it worse.   
  
That's the way it went with him. I went from being "nothing but trouble" to "not worth the  
trouble" to "a mistake". Maybe if it was just the beatings, I'd have been able to handle it better.  
You can get used to that kind of pain. But the things he's say... And I never knew what was going  
to set him off. I started to feel like a whipped puppy, always looking over it's shoulder, fearing  
the next kick or scolding. I guess I looked like it too. Kids at school started calling me Hunted  
instead of Hunter. Yeah. Real damned cute to a kid who's getting his ass kicked in the one place  
he was supposed to feel safe. Bastards.   
  
Well, I'll give the old man this much– If I hadn't been doing anything and everything just to  
get the hell out of the house, I probably never would have become a wrestler. And I never would  
have gotten to know Shane. We didn't start out friends. Not that we were enemies. We just didn't  
really travel in the same circles. To be honest, I never really paid much attention to him before  
that day in the locker room.   
  
It happened during a show and a particularly hellish confrontation with my father. The old man  
had me backed against a wall with a death-grip around my throat when the locker room door  
swung open, slamming into the wall with a crash that even made the old man jump. There he  
stood, glaring at my father in all his "Boss' Son" glory.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said, sounding anything but. "Visitor's are not allowed in the locker rooms."   
  
My father let go of me and as I sank to the floor gasping for breath he tore into Shane with  
such a furry that I couldn't help but cringe. But damned if that kid didn't stand his ground. He  
didn't even bother to respond in words. He just held the door open and patiently waited for the  
unwanted "visitor" to leave. He acted as though he expected nothing less than my father's total  
compliance. A trick, I figure, he picked up from his own father.  
  
After a few choice words which Shane wisely ignored, the old man left and I, still on the floor,  
was overcome by a nasty case of the shakes and an overwhelming desire to cry. (I know, I know.  
I'm a pathetic son-of-a-bitch.)  
  
He never asked me to talk about it. He just sat down, right there on the floor; near enough to  
let me know he was there, but far enough to give me my space.   
  
It felt like hours before I finally pulled myself together enough to look up, but when I did, the  
look in his eyes... It wasn't a look of pity, or disdain or any of the other usual stuff. It was the   
complete and total understanding of someone who has been there.   
  
  
* * * *  



	2. Shane

  
::Shane::   
  
It wasn't bravery that brought me to the locker room that day. I'm still not entirely sure what  
it was, but it wasn't anything brave or noble. Maybe it was nothing more than morbid curiosity.  
The kind that makes you want to see what's going on with that accident on the side of the road.   
I was standing near one of the backstage exit doors talking with a couple of friends. Rodney and  
Pete were two of my closest friends and I hadn't seen them in ages. They were in the area for  
something and had been hanging around the arena for over an hour waiting for me. I'd finally  
managed to get away from the show and catch a few minutes with them in the very back of the  
building which was pretty much deserted when I heard the screaming. It had to be coming from  
the secondary locker room which was all the way down the hall and around a corner. Rodney and  
Pete were ignoring it, pretending not to notice. I tried to, but there was just something about that  
voice-- the rage, the...disdain. It bothered me.   
  
There was a loud thud then a short, muffled cry of either pain or surprise, I couldn't tell which.  
I started towards the room but Pete grabbed my arm.  
  
"I'd stay out of it, Shane," he said, frowning slightly.  
  
"Who's in there?" I demanded.  
  
Rodney and Pete exchanged a look before Pete spoke up again.  
  
"Helmsley and his old man. The old guy is pissed about something. It's family stuff, man, we  
should just leave."  
  
'Family stuff'. I knew all about 'family stuff'. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe we should leave.  
But I couldn't. Something compelled me to go closer.   
  
I told my friends that I'd catch up to them later. Rodney was gone almost before I'd gotten the  
words out, but Pete shot me one last warning look before leaving himself. I walked to the locker  
room.  
  
For a moment I could only stand there, listening to the voice rage on the other side of the  
door.   
  
"You look at me when I talk to you, you pathetic son-of-a-bitch!"  
  
I cringed. I knew that tone. Knew it well.  
  
"You see where being a wise-ass gets you? How stupid are you, you fucking moron?! Did you  
really think your so-called friends would stand up for your pathetic ass or did you think your boss  
was going to let that stunt go? Wait a minute; that's right- You don't know how to think!"   
  
He was talking about the Kliq incident. That had been a real scandal- in my father's eyes, at  
least. I'll never forget the look on his face when they did that. It was great. I really thought his  
eyes were going to pop right out of his head.   
  
There was nothing he could do to the others. Kevin, Scott and Sean had left for WCW and  
Shawn Michaels was one of, if not the most popular wrestler we had. So Helmsley ended up as  
the scapegoat. My father absolutely buried him, Had him jobbing to every no-name in the fed. He  
was still paying for it months later. It wasn't fair, but it was typically Vince.   
  
"Get your stuff," the voice in the locker room rasped, "You're going to tell your boss that  
you're bringing your pathetic ass back home to work in the shop."  
  
There was a mumble which I couldn't make out.  
  
"What did you say?!"  
  
"I'm staying here." Hunter's voice was soft but dogged.  
  
'Good for you,' I cheered silently.   
  
There was a crash and this time a definite gasp of pain. Before I could even register what I was  
doing, the door flew open crashing against the wall. The older Helmsley had pinned his son  
against a locker with a vice-like choke hold. Hunter was clawing desperately at the hand clamped  
around his throat. His face was turning purple.  
  
Now that I was in there, it occurred to me that I was not exactly a threat. What the hell could I  
do that Hunter couldn't?  
  
It wasn't a conscious thought. If I had actually stopped to think about it, it probably would  
have rattled me to see how quickly, how instinctively I could turn into my father. Before I could  
realized what I was doing or why, I had straightened up to my full height and put on my most  
haughty tone.  
  
"I'm sorry. Visitors are not allowed in the locker rooms."  
  
It was bullshit but my voice smacked of self-importance, practically daring the man to  
contradict me. It was a pretty bang-on imitation of ol' Vince. Then again, it ought to have been.  
I'd been on the receiving end of his scorn more times than I cared to count.   
  
The elder Helmsley finally let go of his son who dropped to the floor almost hyperventilating.  
He turned on me in a rage, words that had, from my fathers mouth, left me quaking in their wake.  
Maybe it was because it wasn't Vince saying them. Maybe it was because I was too angry at what  
I had just seen him put his son through. Then again, maybe it was nothing more than how into my  
Vince imitation I was, but he didn't scare me. I just held the door open and after a few more  
choice words he finally left.   
  
I looked at Hunter. He was leaning back against the locker, his arms wrapped around his body  
and his knees up to his chest.  
  
"I hate him," he whispered, tears starting to slide silently down his cheeks.  
  
Nodding silently, I joined him on the floor. I knew the feeling. You didn't just hate him for the  
physical pain of fist on flesh, or the cutting, hateful words. You hated him for the way he made yo  
feel like you deserved it; like you were less than human. More than that, you hated him for the  
way he made you weak.  
  
* * * * 


End file.
